Steam Heat
by Greyella
Summary: Kettles heat up amongst familial rivalry and the Dark Lord's prerogative. Eventual Cissatrix. Hints of Lucissa, Roldolatrix, and Voldatrix. Told from various POVs. Rating subject to change with updates.
1. Teapot Calling Kettle

**Author's Note I:** And I'm back, and I know it's been far too long. A special thanks to _Mrs. Milfoy_ for all her support. This fic is a gifty for the lovely _BellasTrick_.

* * *

_Malfoy Manor:_

Morn' tilted breakfast into a rather stilted affair, complete with wobbles of awkward silence and untimely breaths. Malfoy Manor never claimed to be a proponent of a snuggly atmosphere. It simply claimed. Still, this choked morning felt more particular in harsh swallow, dry as stale toast.

Even Draco kept his snarks silent, and did not attempt to butter moist. The lady of the house was quiescent, save for stirs or sips of her cream silted infusion, or the occasional word without substance. And the _Daily Prophet_, submissive pages for legs, spread wide upon his sire's nose, grey eyes accusing headlines apparently lacking. These parental actions, far from phenomena. Still, the stagnant air of unspoken whispered mannerisms and tattled. And he, the luckless son, was aware of something amiss. He was, even amongst the usual artifice of a Malfoy marriage.

_'Bugger.' _and the odd thought disturbed Draco.

_'…and Bellatrix is absent. Just when bombing antics have use. Perhaps the shindig tonight will...' _

Involuntarily, Draco's sigh let out of chest.

Fishhook to his gaze, Narcissa was more Black than maternal in her eyebrow raise. A depreciating smirk flashed quick-red across lips and died. Sorrow impregnated his curiosity; Draco knew he saw desolation wave from behind her cerulean windows. But Narcissa dove into façade oceans (avoiding soul); an easy fallback into tea clouds. And he watched her dive, this apparent flight - time biding and protective.

Strange somatic and the spine crinkled - a bad quidnunc. Draco wondered at this frail flora of a woman, an immaculate veneer he knew to be surface actor. He wondered if his father knew. He wondered if any discerned the implications of dualities; Bellatrix expelled explicit explosion, Narcissa imparted implicit implosion. She, the more delicate and controlled device - timed and time bomb ticking.

Draco made to open his mouth.

"Dragon…"

And shut it.

Her voice silked across the table and wove steam between morning meats. Face too astute, a keen mother simultaneously called him kettle, warned against stirring the pot (one not fully understood), and offered him a crumpet in consolation.

Perhaps imp infested (or idle), but he made to check the actual teakettle for steepage quality. And barely constrained the internal laughter upon realization that the pot itself was black. And Black.

A derisive chuckle from his mother at unspoken puns and inappropriate levity. Narcissa eyed her son, amused, annoyed - spawn had clearly inherited her own acuity. Lesson. And she watched as he watched. And Flora suddenly was Black kettle.

"Lucius…another cuppa?" She reached preemptively for fixings, cream and whatnots.

"Make it black."

All at once, Draco wanted to hide at such idiocy, graffiti it ubiquitously. But he heard her placid tones mutter strained viciousness.

"Obviously."

At that gem-not, he thumped chest with reluctant fist. Such crude motion dislodged the inhaled crumpet crumb playing garrote. Though, such choking execution would have been preferred (being the safer alternative in the room). Ear scratched. The odd urge to hum nonchalantly.

Lucius broke embrace with his paper, steels daring to wonder at incredulity.

"I'm sorry?"

"I said, of course deary." Tea poured.

Newspaper found its whore position once more, in rustled paper skirts.

Draco sighed.

_'Yes, a diffusion was in order. Or at least a delusion. Stupid kettles calling each other Black.'_ He downed a scalding gulp at this prospect, wondering if hibiscus could induce sanity.

* * *

**Author's Note II: **Oh my faithful, it's to you I apologize for the long time-laspse. Yes, there will be more chapters. Yes it will be eventual Cissatrix. R & R and feed the bard.


	2. Tea for Thought

**Author's Note I:  
**I've succumbed and started a tumblr account. And yes, _BellasTrick,_ I both blame and thank you, it's hella addicting! You can follow me at: greyella . tumblr . com (just delete the spaces - *sigh* nonsensical website blocking). Click on the "?" link under my about section to ask me anything. Thank you my dearies, for all your lovely reviews. I usually don't answer individual reviews in my chapter posts, but as I couldn't reply to these two via PM, there's always a first. And yes, if you're still lurking silent, dear readers, I do answer every review within a day or so.

_~ Sworddraconis113  
_Thank you for your kind words, they were heartening. You are right, I have wild fun with my large lexicon and choose words with high amounts of specificity. I'm so glad you've found multiple understandings in them, as that's intentional, and often what fuels me. The layers. Hopefully you'll enjoy this update as well *smile*

_~ Guest_  
Thank you for your review and thoughts. I think perhaps you are unfamiliar with my approach to writing. As such, I'll give you some insight as to my process. While I post my writing, it's not meant for anyone other than me, as it's simply my exploding expression of creativity that must out from my head. I choose to share with the lovelies on this site because it's fun. And rather silly to keep my creation all to myself *smile*. I do often hide easter-eggs for my most faithful, if they so request. The first chapter was meant to be short, just as this chapter was meant to be longer. Such is the versatile beauty of installments. I will take the wanting more of my words as compliment though, and thank you again for your thoughts. Always fun to gain a new reader!

* * *

Previously:

_Draco sighed. _

_'Yes, a diffusion was in order. Or at least a delusion. Stupid kettles calling each other Black.' He downed a scalding gulp at this prospect, wondering if hibiscus could induce sanity._

* * *

But even as this flitted, Draco's present thoughts concerning Malfoy power-plays trailed off; other fleets insisted upon contemplation.

Lucius grunted inaudibly (prompted by something in the paper) as his mother poured herself a second cuppa; cream stirred swirls by handless spoon (a wandless, nonverbal cast). Draco thought she wish-waited for something. Her eyes, internal with secrets, slid to the bay window of the casual dining room. Outside, he highly doubted the lovely countryside of Wiltshire was her true recipient. And he knew it wasn't the peacocks. Bloody awful things they were.

Draco jammed another crumpet and scowled at the wooden silence. He knew it a true dire day when the volatile of Bella's charms seemed more appealing. The woman's ludicrous antics spat reality as fire ground(s), fresh dreg-wakes of scalding tea. (Contrast, and the air between his parents was cold, like strangers on an ice train.) Include then, Bellatrix's le'strange way about her. She, the stomping Black ocean, personifying Charybdis and bathing comfort for his mother. She the allied and heated ground, that upon which Narcissa foot-relied as foundation.

That window, and Cissa sipped tea, her hand unconsciously cherishing the arachnidan pendent lacing her throat, counterpart of faithful earrings. A _belle_ gift.

For slight seconds, Draco's thoughts writhed as salted leeches, shell-shrapnel in the head.  
- Ponderance at familial interplays.

And then…

- …thoughts he dared,  
- …not.  
- Stopped.

Curiously, had another been privy to the mental listen, his mind would have supplied narrow-eyed compartments: suspicion, all locked up. Though stopped, the sounding off of his ocean-notions would have crescendoed - soft moans, hiding wave-crashes in lovers' night. Or perhaps, just corrupted teenage hormones in head-clanging cacophony. Either way, he sought not to travel such salted gravy trains, an arduous avoidance - knowing salt would be tasty.

Gaze fell away from the window as his mother regarded her tea, lost in thought, fingers trailing a porcelain rim with odd tease.

Draco decided there must be reason she'd never uttered specifics, not of Bella (even if the woman needed no introduction). To her son, Mum never spoke of their close but dueling sisterhood. Then again, in general, words in this family were underused, as truth was written in subtle action, not speech. And words, perhaps, did injustice, he supposed; the Black sisters were unprintable entities and would have been unencompassed by even the greatest of poets.

And it wasn't as if Bellatrix was open water well. An inkwell, perhaps, dark and staining. But her emotion was not spent on Draco. Her protection and gleeful quips, yes. Her, often painful, battle and academic tutorage. And at times, her shrewd eyes considered him with queer intensity, almost caring. Time before last, during their duel lesson, he'd caught her, holding him in intense regard - as if she'd wondered at his existence in the moonlight.

* * *

_Unnerved by the almost affection, Draco shot a stunning spell at her, which she of course ducked. A chuckled tsk-tsk from her lips - his sudden meal to eat as it lodged in throat. A single candle, the moon, and their wands light the space._

_"Stupid boy, your cast time is ridiculous. Anyone could see your intent from a kilometer off." _

_A beat. _

_And moonshine winked at them from above, from the ceiling skylight. And then her Crucio (albeit spot-targeted and low in intensity), chastised, nicking his bollocks in evil amusement and cackles._

_"Fuck you, Bella" he seriously imparted, doubled-over and panting in pain. _

_She deadpanned with female amusement, "Only in your wet-dreams; fruition and my Cis-" She cut off, and suddenly twirled, menacingly, black skirts dancing about her._

_"…fruition and I doubt your Lucy-father would approve. After all, then to it you'll have beaten him…off, you go then, again. Again. Do it again." Her eyes twinkled, Black in raunchy wit, and rather reminiscent of his mother. _

_The room darkened, as its celestial source of illumination hide by cloud. The dim did not quite hide the burning of Draco's face, nor his mouth fallen open. _

_But Bellatrix merrily continued in cheery quip,  
"Now, now, dear…it's for your own good. Think of it as operant conditioning. And retribution for my gender." She muttered the last bit._

_He was left little time to ponder her last statement._

_More seriously she spoke, "Again. You need to shave those seconds off your wand-draw. It's your dreadful speed that needs work, not your actual casts." _

_Her astute was true, and despite unorthodox methods, Bella was an effective teacher even if she…_

_"Unless you'd rather end up with shaved balls from your failures. If so, tell your Pansy of my gifty, I'm sure she'll approve." She moved back into battle stance, indifferent to his mounting horror._

_…was a demon-harpy of an instructor. _

_From heavens, Selene danced again, out from under a cloud; the room and its occupants painted in wraithlike designs. Nonchalantly, she waited. And again, he found that strange contemplation as she eyed him. _

_Red, frustrated at her for multiple reasons, he blurted out in hissed pain,  
"Oi! I got it; don't need your crazed-Crucio as warning. And just what the fuck are you bloody staring at?!"_

_It wasn't incredulity at his gall, which provoked her eyebrow, smirking in surprise. Though as she hounded toward him, snarls her face and hair, he realized he ought be concerned at her temper. She in a good mood, and he got ball-hexed. He didn't want to fall on the other side of her temper-spectrum. And nephew or not, no one spoke to Bellatrix Lestrange like that…and lived without painful retaliation. That is if they lived at all._

_Stumbling backward, and face squinted shut, he braced for her signature spell - Crucio in its truest form, rage uncontrolled and weep worthy. Too many moments lapsed. And when pain never came, he winked-open an eye in a rather comedic gesture. Only to find them a hand's width apart, bathed by eerie under the skylight. Only to find her there, too close for his liking, the oddest look upon her wide-eyed face, her lips parted in astonishment. Strange he felt, as Bellatrix's free hand brushed his hair, shining whiteblonde - so like his mother's, in the lunar-light from the drawing room transom. For a moment he thought she was going to cup his face, and…_

_But she'd pulled away abruptly. He rather thought she'd not found whatever it was she'd seen there, moments ago. _

_"Uncanny reflections, deary," her unanswering answer. _

_He confused, until realization – she'd finally responded to his question. There wasn't time enough to dwell now (though he did later, that sleepless night). And the moonlight had gone, behind a cloud, with it her strangeness toward him. The rest of the session had gone fine – he'd even received a reluctant nod from his aunt, at his improved progress. In fact, it'd been fine until the very end, as she walked away, into the hallway toward the grand staircase. When her careful wording had hit him._

_"And Dragon, do cut your hair. It's far too…reminiscent. Of your mum, when she and I were young."_

_The very next day, and he'd dragged his bewildered mother to the barbershop. And despite pureblood Malfoy tradition, he'd traded his long boyhood locks, for a shorter style. And when he and Bella dueled next, the strange moments were absent (the bollocks-hexing was unfortunately not). _

_Then he knew; it had nothing to do with him at'all. Only the moonlight and secret memories._

_Reflections indeed. _

* * *

Not even Rodolphus was granted Bella's affection. Only duty. Her emotion (raging or otherwise), Draco knew, was reserved - for the cause. For the Dark Lord. And oddly, for _Cissa_.

Familiar to others, and his mother was witty _Cissy_. Occasionally, _Narcissa_ to those who once knew her as Black. And yet most days, she regaled society as _Madame Malfoy_. He supposed she was _Mother_ to him, _Mum or Mummy_ when his compatriots were out of earshot. But _Cissa_,_ Cissa_ was only ever sobriquet from Bella's mouth; even his father subscribed to _Cissy_. Draco wondered at the women within his mother, wondered which was her soul. He had inklings that _Cissa_ was her alcove, ravine reigning over all the others.

The newspaper suddenly slipped sideways. Briefly, Lucius met the eyes of his son, as they both sipped their respective beverages. Speech, if only to appear at normalcy. Such _was_ the norm in the House of Malfoy.

"And where will you be tonight?" his father's voice inquired, uninterested in actual response.

"Here. Blaise plans on evening tea; his latest stepfather has fallen _mysteriously_ ill." Despite his father's token regard, sardonicism crept out.

Lucius grunted his acceptance.

Words aloud and Narcissa seemed to fall back into current. (The faraway look on her face, fading. Her hand on the spider necklace, remaining.)

"Is this…number 7?" Her voice seemed wry with societal underpinnings.

Draco ignored the shiver her eyebrow-raise produced – it was Bella written on her face. And instead, in rare moment, he joined in his mother's droll humor.

"8. 7 actually died of his _own_ accord. Was it…last year I think? Spell gone awry. Witnesses and everything."

She chuckled under her breath, well-knowing Madame Zabini's penchant for wealthy husbands. And funerals.

"Ah. Misdirection, perhaps. Do send Blaise my…ah, positive thoughts. At this point, preemptive condolences would only be vulgar."

A rare smile tilted her lips in wit, and she almost appeared happy to Draco. He pleased that both _Cissy_ and _Mum_ had emerged. Her oceans twinkled, in fond fun (the content of their discourse being no matter). He'd forgotten her humor. Missed it even. The simplicity of human regard, and Narcissa was bloom. He wondered how cold it was when he boarded at Hogwarts. Winter's break, and he was thankful for it (for a sake not his own). He wondered if the only humanity she found was in Bella's flaws. In Bella's ar—

Stop. Thought-stop. Conjecture. Moving on.

Thus, Draco played at small gift, an amateur attempt in hopes to retain the warmth found, despite the frosted breakfast table.

"And just think, you've prime _fodder_ for gossip now, courtesy of your son, from the accredited son source himself. Tell that to the biddies."

Blaise wouldn't care. Well he would, just in opposite form from the expected. The Italian's libido would have grown hard the spout, tipping eager drops from its head. This, at the chance to relay hints of gossip to _Madame Malfoy_. Draco was well aware of his mate's lusting – fair Narcissa was hard to have as a mother. Horndogs, his mates, the lot of them, and therefore lots of punching involved. However, this time it had prompted friendship. A few well-placed blows, and male regard had turned from a scrap into the best of mates. Such were men.

"Ah yes, I'm sure the ladies at tomorrow's Gala committee will be overcome with sheer joy at such…pander." _Cissy _amused at him with sarcasm, witted in truth.

All at once, her voice crafted lack of enthusiasm and wry thanks for his tidbit. But he knew she'd play the game. After all, it always boded well to remind those in the upper-class, just who exactly was queen. Even if she was reluctant in reign. But status was what they had.

Status she had in stacks. Her Black name carried esteemed weight, the Malfoy addition only further dressing to her repute. And then the Dark Lord. She, the cherished sister of _His _Best Lieutenant, wife of his third in command. And perhaps lesser known, but a well-adept Potion Mistress, second only to his godfather (her services retained when Severus was…away). Yes. Status she had.

Her facial muscles smirked, Slytherin in antics. Draco squirmed in his seat, feeling _almost_ sorry for the gossipmongers, the ladies of high Wizarding society. Oh yes. He knew she'd wield the information with eminent fun. If only to build blanket for herself, to keep away the cold at home. Draco didn't fault her for it.

Lucius ignored most of the exchange, only offering up cruel in regards of her societal agenda, "Don't wear that red dress, then. It makes you look like the utter slut."

The pocket of warmth cracked, and Draco watched Cissy-twinkles retreat. Refrozen became her oceans. Her tongue fastened shut against salt spray. It wasn't doormat; it was merely…Malfoy. And so silence became the Malfoys once more, as _Madame Malfoy_ materialized. But not before Draco saw the _Cissa_ in her stiffen. Her necklace grasped, staunching most of her trembles – this, _Cissa_ for seconds, perhaps clinging to her soul. But then back to the window she was, third cup of tea clinking with uneven stirs.

[_And he knew that red dress, her new favorite. The French style Bellatrix had brought home after her last mission abroad. It confused him, his father's statement. For that dress only made his mother look like woman to desire, painting her lovely with its ethereal flow. He doubted Narcissa Malfoy (née Black) could be slutty, even if she tried._]

He tried to catch her eyes, fishing in the ice that surrounded now. But the momentary lock only prompted her chin to aversion drop, as she kept silent and submitted to Lucius' idiocy. Though brief, momentary glimpse of her stone-set was shamed. Draco couldn't decide if it was her own, or shame for his sire. But truly he suspected it was heart-wrenching mortification, having son pay witness to such ignominy of her person. The teenager wondered how many times similar had played out like this behind closed doors, away from offspring eyes. He angered - for her, at himself. But mostly at the man behind the newspaper.

Silence, and tea.

Draco saw sadness in her sip. Saw the utter failure, felt in her frame, as the mum within was unable to shelter her son from anything Malfoy. She couldn't after all, no safeguard when her son _was_ one. So mum were her words, and her windows fogged.

And both _Cissy_ and _Mum_ left the room, as _Madame Malfoy_ took over.

'_A another soul-chip,_' he thought, if only to focus on refraining from dropkicking his father's bollocks under the table.

That necklace grasp remained, knuckles white, and his hackles rose. Still, if one was empirically inclined for evidence, then Draco _had _nothing really. He neither had Atlas to bear burden of underpinnings, nor to bear witness. He only owned wandering whispers, which shunned tangibility. He did own moonlight incidents. But all in all, he supposed, at best, he had conjecture – and his father's loathing dependence of dark Bellatrix. But Draco had no clear root, only loose dregs – dregs currently made of moonlight wrapped up in red dress.

The redress, the return to homeostasis - in the room it was habitual in misery.

The boy was unsure if Lucius was unobservant or just good at pretending he was. His cruel then, perhaps defense against the latter. Personally, Draco decided he would rather continue at _avoid_ance (that is avoid guessing at explanation). Rather _that_, than be confirmed by tangled tealeaves, tangoing tantrics at the bottom of prophetic cups.

The paper had resumed, as did the silver orbs that perused _news_, those prostituting words for hire.

Thoughts brewed, despite rapidly waning contents of cup. The blonde head cocked into his tea, teeth scraping fine china as swift eureka. He'd forgotten he had one – one incisive point above conjecture. One scene had stuck throughout years: the paint-brushings of a memory recalled, an epitome panorama from his own upbringing.

Draco swallowed the last bit of tepid tea, along with the bitter dregs of his potation, so as to remind himself…not to tempt with rumor or memory.

He wondered if all families were as fucked up, or if he was just the luckless bastard of the world.

And conjecture, despite all his stopping, played. And memory had him.

* * *

**Author's Note II: **Preemptively, to clear up any confusion. This is not part of my MWR universe, per se. But I would say this as an Uber fic of that verse - I think you'll find SH's Cissa and Bella to quite resemble MWR's. (Hah...talk about meta-writing: an Uber of my own fanfic, which is fueled by cannon-verse. Amusing.) That is, this is potential _what-would-have-been_, had things between Bellatrix/Narcissa remained strictly platonic until adulthood. But you'll l find that I throw in...hints at MWR if you are familiar. SH does stick to cannon mostly (for instance, the Zabini bit about the 7 stepfathers is actual cannon). However, I do step out of box now and then to suit my purposes (i.e. Draco's long hair and other similar small details).

**Author's Note III:  
**R & R and feed the bard. She's on a roll, and reviews are inspiration. Next chapter is already in the works.


	3. T(ea)-Boned

**Author's Note I: **My dearies, another chapter for you all. I apologize for being behind in PM responses (aiming for the next day or so). But I figured you'd forgive me if I updated.

**POV Shifts:** This is a strange combination of Draco, Lucius, and Bella's POV.

**Cannon Change: **Slight timeline shift. In order to make this work, assume Bella was around for Draco's early years. This means her jail-time in Azkaban would have been shorter in the SH-universe, than it was in original cannon.

* * *

Previously:

_Draco swallowed the last bit of tepid tea, along with the bitter dregs of his potation, so as to remind himself…not to tempt with rumor or memory._

_He wondered if all families were as fucked up, or if he was just the luckless bastard of the world._

_And conjecture, despite all his stopping, played. And memory had him. _

* * *

_**13 years earlier:**_

_Behind the door, cracked a sliver, Draco-hidden-in-the-hall didn't understand. Auntie Bella was Mummy's best friend; Mummy had told him so. Auntie's wand curved at his father. The tot decided it was an adult game._

Bella's voice spat harsh lows, her curls wild-spun, eyes oil spindles.

"Leave."

Drawn-wand never parting from its lewd aim, Black gaze darted frantically to the human pile on the chaise longue. A spent target, not of her own aim.

_Draco squinted and saw. Upon closer review, the pile was Mummy! Her limp form balled, and quivered unconscious under the moor window. Scared, a whimper struck his throat; he ate it, not wanting to give away his hiding. The child hoped Auntie Bella would chase away Mummy's bad dreams. Mummy was good at doing that for him. Wide-eyed, Draco watched his father's cane became weapon, potential seething ire with his face. _

"Bitch, you dare tell me…in my own ho—"

"I dare? You buffoon…" Bella cut him off. On her aura - dangerous nonchalance and writhing emotion.

"It's you who has dared too far, concerning my…sister. _**He**_ ordered one simple thing: keep her away from revels. Or were you simply feeling _magnanimous…_intending her as prize to share? He'll be so pleased, to know you think His orders as on par with your school-boy whims…"

The Best Lieutenant snarled, crackling enjoyment, leaving but hydrogen for her sub-par colleague and marital consanguine to breathe.

_Draco was curious. Auntie was talking about **Him** again. They always did that, the adults._

"I…"

_Draco thought his father looked sickly at some sudden idea, if his oblivious wand-drop in lower was any indication._

"Choose your words carefully, Pig-boy, you're already too close insubordination. And this is not some two-bit cunt of yours. She's Black, and _unfortunately_…Malfoy." Bella stalked to him, the vulture circling prey undone.

In evening the moor window speckled dim light, grimly highlighting his pulse, which raced through a pristine Ministry collared neck. Her wand found purchase there and pressed.

"Quite _au contraire_, deary. I suggest you can your illusions; your marriage grants you no ownership, only a regular lease. You knew quite well coming in – your claim is only equal, if not below. Blacks own each other. And just as I own my filthy mud-sister in legalities, I own your wife…"

Pause, ship sinking in.

Still threat with wand pressed, her body appeared gentled, too near his arms, his chest. Lucius had forgotten his sister-in-law's prowess…in other avenues. She reminded him, wand movements snake-dangerous and desirable. Mouth too red, she continued,

"So technically Lucy-boy, as eldest of my generation…" curls, whispers tickled his throat in adversarial intimacy,

"…that _cunt _is mine."

_Draco scrunched his face. Auntie said the bad word again. _

Lucius all but hauled off and smacked her for wording stupid truth…like _that_. Belled chuckles lilted, a macabre pantomime, tucked under his chin as rival. As woman. She was…there. There, there, fucking there. This unwanted, this maneater, this eternal presence in Malfoy-land. And worse, he knew it made Cissy happy.

Having played her cards with antagonizing intent, Bellatrix breath beguiled a brother-in-law. In synchrony, he erected hate at esoteric Pureblood law, and flung horribly into the aroused gutter, jumbling and sprung.

(intrusive images red coral songs tongued, a fucking night fucking in blonde suns)

Stop.

He growled at the cruel smirk triumphing upon his neck.

_Draco didn't understand. One second they were fighting, the next, and Auntie had hugged Papa, looking oddly feminine in his arms. A childish scowl. Adults were dumb._

Yet despite everything, even knowing her mind game - Lucius' hands had ended up on her hips. To ward off, to pull in. He loathed such lovely curve under his palms. Her free hand (not spearing craw with wand) took liberties, grasping his neck in malicious gentles, her lips boasting odd glee in many triumphs.

'_Ah,' _she thought_, 'some fun and horrid now.' _Her subject change brought them back from regression.

"But where were we? Ah yes. The revels. Your idiotic disobedience. And oh…your natural consequences." Flat tones of her _Cause_ coated his throat, as did the wand that leaked pre-cum of a hex.

She outranked him. Fuck.

Bellatrix felt the lieutenant squirm in sudden realization - she had authority to punish on the Dark Lords orders.

"Did you really think the Dark Lord _wouldn't _seek to protect _His_ futures? Especially, when you're ill quipped?" The jesting query graveled too calm, coating Lucius' cilia furiously.

The wand trailed over his collarbone, dark dances. His sister-in-law's lips grazed ear shell in fury, with sultry danger. And the horrible tightening of Lucius' groin couldn't be helped (despite situation). She mocked Lucius in knowing chuckle, bit his ear with hot breath, and delighted in disgust at his resulting hating groan of desire.

_Ew. And Draco made a face at the ear licking. Adults were weird._ _He rather thought his father looked crossed between lemon eating and….and involuntary things. Draco frowned at an elusive concept sailing above his towhead. It was, he thought, that weird feeling adults showed sometimes. Though, he thought it strange. Usually that…thing happened between married people. Maybe Auntie was just special. He watched as Auntie Bella flung his father's hands off her person. _

Ear and other parts at attention, Bellatrix imparted bluntly, her wonky strut clicking boots in whim:

"Your pride and you brought her on _purpose…_like trophy." Bella idly twirled her wand, a smile cruel, and she swam happy in potential carnage. Potential vengeance.

And despite the Black-demon accosting Lucius, full-frontal phrase finally left embryonic phase,

"It was only a revel. She should have been s-safe."

Lucius' whisper was horror dead in the room, his words flimsy, corpselike as they fell to the witch. To his credit,

"She was supposed to have stayed with Alecto, with Lestrange." His pomposity reentered the room, as did his balls.

"Oh yes, because harpy-face and my idiot husband are more formidable with wand than your wife? I think not. Black trained."

_Aunt Bellatrix fumed magic and a new-fangled tone commenced; one Draco was happily proud to understand as sarcasm (if not the content conveyed). Peeking in with eyes, Draco could feel both sparking his oxygen. _

"She's no Eater, you harpy, therefore no reason to think she was a target." With Lucius' balls, so came the signature drawl into the room (pompous and condescending).

Flatly, Bella spoke, "And why…my my, thank Slytherin, we can stop looking I think."

Lucius regarded her coldly, waiting for further clause.

"Be ecstatic now; in a single sentence, why I do think you've earned head-boy of the idiot house. Truly, Peacock-pet..." Coal eyes were innuendo, they nuanced at his crotch.

"...she's your wife, my sister, Black and Malfoy, socialite among other Cause supporters. And oh, you know, the occasional shared dinner with the Dark Lord. Nope. Not a target at all." Bella paced nonchalantly, enjoying logic.

And Lucius' glowering glare only fueled further derisive diatribe from the dark witch.

"…because a room full of Death Eaters is _never_ a target of the Order. And you left her alone. On the balcony. The fucking balcony, Lucy, like offering for slaughter." Her wand curved further, a close range target line; it dipped peculiarly in Crucio-itch.

_Excited, Draco couldn't help it. He thought maybe he'd get to see a real spell with fun colors. Somewhere inside he knew shame, as the magic was aimed at his sire. But still, bathed in the twilight, his aunt was formidable. He quite thought her brilliant, like a witch ought be. With child's eyes he didn't understand her wand or his father's chin – alike in their trembles (though reasons different). The boy wondered at her full lips, her hard eyes, and her cheekbone hollows poised in restraint of a word._

But,

"B-bella." The voice cracked curling want on the air, fear…confusion. Need.

And the broken blonde on the chaise was the surprise victor, winning a duel never begun. Dead sea filled windows, and Narcissa called to her kin frantically, huddling into herself on the daybed. Bella's hand reached back, answering call.

_Draco was pleased his mother seemed to wake from her nap. Perhaps Daddy and Auntie would stop their strange magic game now. It scared him. _

Across camaraderie and enemy chasms, the dark witch and the wizard locked antagonistic eyes. Black ones bookmarked his pain for a later day. The witch smirked at such plight. And then scowled at her loss of happy retribution - and it was such a _lovely_ day for a bloodbath.

But, haste, and she turned. Corseted, battle dress billowed as Bella made way to her sister, the chit wide-awake as misery. Bellatrix's back, left wide open to attack; thus further insult thrown at the feet of pallid Master Malfoy, the frozen statue in a hall of his own making.

With odd gentle, Bellatrix slid onto the daybed and did not hesitate to pull the girl into arms, a frantic embrace. Their bodies, intertwined vines, and Bella gardened her sister's heart withering in bloom. Feeling a steel watch, lips cherished a bruised temple, and lingered, tending. Cissa's nails pierced as shivers, clinging to Bella's chest. Hot tears whetted an unspoken closeness.

And then hoarse murmurs, hyperventilating "B-bella."

And the dark witch found her name repeated song, refrains of sodden relief and imploration. She rocked them, her sister flushed to her, until Cissa quieted…somewhat. Horror-mutters remained, dreadfuls that dark witch could not rewind. Not even with the Dark Lord's favor and power.

_[The Lestrange cache of Firewhisky had been her aim, so in the dank cellar she was, when attack struck surprise. Bellatrix's mind wobbled, her synapses encrusting with Cissa's scream - excruciating, and soul-heard. She dropped a rare bottle in sheer understanding. Only split seconds dedicated __to recognition, to incredulity_. Apparition. In time (witness paid) for the flying spell, arrow amongst others, which felled her baby sister on the balcony (a strike, dead-on to the blonde's core). A caterwauling howl chilled the battle, like poison wine, killing children. And then Bellatrix knew nothing else, only green bellows, maiming fireworks cackling fury in all wand directions. The Order retreated. Or what was left of them did.] 

Trained battle eyes found present, trailing Cissa's form. The dark witch checked her baser emotions, hung them in mental coatroom. Clinically, she probed Cissa's abdomen. Fingers stained rust in ministration, a consanguine sanguine. She added another spell, strengthening partner to field magic wielded on the balcony; she knew fatality was no longer in range. Yet…well, it didn't matter now. So long as Malfoy hostess, lived.

Bellatrix tore away, sick at the stories almost told, at telling red on a once elegant frock. She went on, assessed beyond the obvious injuries. _Consciousness_: a good sign, though Cissa seemed to disagree if her discombobulated state was evidence. On a forehead, hands found too much heat. Delicate beads of sweat dangled, and denoted the beginnings of _fever_: an expected reaction. Mottled bruising, swelling of the right temple. She didn't need Cissa's pupils to affirm what most likely signaled a nasty _concussion_: bad. Other scraps were minor. A jostle, as Bella shifted their embrace, and a sharp moan from Narcissa who clutched her right side instinctively. _Broken ribs_. Bella snarled, but tempered as deadened eyes finally rose, pleading for nightmare and not reality. Her mouth had no other answer then the slight lip tremble, kissing a bloody forehead.

"Hurts…everything hurts," Cissa's whisper tortured.

"Shhh, dearest. I'm here."

Bella's hating stare returned to rival. And with many things, vengeful eyes darkened at her sister's husband. Only to be broken by blonde.

Narcissa sought shelter, trembling against her human haven, needing nails in flesh for grounded solace. In regard of her wounded charge, Bellatrix softened heart, though her twitches to torture Lucius remained. Twitches only reinforced by the blood staining Cissa's hands. They grappled in black skirts until one found embrace, tight and unwavering. Twining knuckles were their locks, and love.

_Draco smile at the nice hug his auntie gave Mummy. He thought it was nice Auntie held Mummy's hand when she was scared. And nightmares were the worst! He was glad his mummy had Bella to chase them away. Draco thought Auntie was nicest when around Mummy. It confused him, for that's when Papa was meanest._

Blonde murmurs in warrior arms. Hands finding curls as home base - safety blanket. Fevered forehead against chested beats, and matted flaxen once trussed by braid. Bellatrix smoothed her sweaty brow. And held back snarls at the liberal crimson she saw, felt against her body. It painted tragedy across Cissa's abdomen. Yes, the crucial for her sister's life was saved, but not the…

"The b-baby okay? The baby oh t-the baby the baby baby the baby…" whispers screamed into Bella's chest, Cissa's mouth stuck on repeat, soul bent nearly to broken.

_Draco saw his father's dumbstruck and nauseous face…and Bella's reaction._

It was a deliberate sword to Malfoy, as she enjoyed being the knight, if only to pain him. Still, no less the intended comfort, as Bellatrix held the girl to heart and let the chit keen hysteria in their resumed rocking. Mourning far away, this still shock.

"Bella, p-please, out, put me out. Just for a bit. And s-stay, don't leave…need, just don't…" Cissa had found Bella's ear, her wet face sticking to black curls.

So Bellatrix's fingers found silent spell (concussion safe) upon temple, allowing the girl a blessed release to unconsciousness. But even as escape became her sister, from Cissa a clear uninhibited kiss trailed Bella's clavicle, as did Malfoy's twitch with it. Bellatrix purred and noted the ammunition for future date.

'_Wow. I wonder if Auntie can give me nice dreams like that too.' Draco wondered. _

Even in atrocity, Cissa limp (the strange corset dressing) was a best feeling for Bellatrix. Her next words sealed Malfoy's idiocy in deadpan.

"Congratulations on your loss of a secured Black distaff heir, through the Malfoy line. If you weren't her husband I'd kill you for sheer stupidity, resurrect you and then disembowel your innards for disobedience to my Lord."

_The child watched, eyes understanding a feeling of bad, as his father, words stolen, only griped his decorous cane for moral support. Draco frowned. Didn't adults always tell you to be prepared? He thought his father seemed rather ill-surprised at whatever it was Auntie relayed to him._

"As it is, you are **_his_** to deal with. But as it is…I am Black. Be it, I just may kill you anyway on a happier day, as favor to your wife. And call it retribution for my murdered niece. I stand by my first: leave. Get out. Unless _you'd_ rather inform your wife she's lost her child and is barren due to your pride."

Malfoy took one last look at his wife, fallen and bloodied with end in his rival's arms. How he hated the Bella-harpy. And never more-so than this day. The sitting room doors flew open as he stormed, right into sudden regard of his wide-eyed son, silver eyes shining with too much Black. Master Malfoy struck it out of him.

Only then, did Bella let her Crucio fly uninhibited, as her nephew screamed scared...and hurting.

It was a lovely feeling, Cissa pressed to her in gentle sleep, and torture in the air.

* * *

_**Present:**_

So. Over his stupid éclair, Draco watched them, his parents. Crumbling flakes.

He watched.

His mother and those feminine hands practiced silent trembles against a morning tea.

His father in focused sneer – the daily prophet his bible for a Lord, and everything else imperceptible to him.

And him. Pale in comparison to both, in complexion, like a sad reflection of the love that his mother wished she wished had been.

'_Stupid war,'_ and his thought appeared short, unencompassing of anything he meant to think.

Rash and he made his mouth to speak; perhaps an insult would move cold away.

And over the silver shine of the morning tea service (courtesy of Dobby's replacement), mother met son by eye, hers too celadon in understanding. Her were not the empty sea, that drained basin, as he had seen them of late. Placid clears had traded for pale pierce upon her pulchritude, their shrapnel speaking Slytherin.

And oh, that hush without words held him down. He'd forgotten her Black. And it was sure in this moment of control.

And he knew in that moment he was an idiot; he forgot the cold was her mode of defense for him. She knew more than she let on.

He wondered if she knew about the mistress. The whores. He wondered if the she-demon knew.

He hoped. Not. And he hoped.

The day moved.

* * *

**Author's Note III: **R&R and feed the bard, it keeps her muse motivated.

(Credit: _Xena: Warrior Princess_: A Necessary Evil (S2E14), Callisto)


	4. Teabox Tears

**Disclaimer:**  
And this is where this story's rating swiftly segues into "M." Rape, dub-con, expletives, and I suppose what could be construed as lemons if you squint hard. Not for children, not intended for minors. Read at your own risk.

**Author's Note I:  
**_Guest Review Responses for Chapter 3_

_- Guest #1_ - Glad you're enjoying! Onto the subject of Bellamort (which I call Voldetrix, I like the sound of it better. Idk, Bellamort sounds rather like a disease or a rare herb to me. Whereas, Voldetrix sounds...alluring). There will be some of this in upcoming chapters, as this story requires it (I'm sure you'll be happy to hear). However, the primary pairing is Cissatrix. Thanks for the review!

_- Guest #2_ - *Laughs* Okay. So. Let's review the purpose of reviews. Support, constructive criticism, questions, and respectful opinions. Oh my friend, not outright attack! One. If you don't like, don't read. Two. I have a hard time being offended when you compare me to Shakespeare, the master bard himself. Thank you, I'm quite flattered. Three. You should go read Macbeth, it's lovely. Four. Shakespeare must be rolling over in his grave, as my style is nothing like his. Five. Thank you, I like the story line I'm creating too. Six. Awful? Well, simply put deary, if you can't read it, I suggest not attempting to insult the writer. It's not productive. Seven. Go write your own story if you're so unhappy with mine. And finally, eight. Have the guts to review under your handle. Thank you for your review. And dude, some friendly advice; don't start flame wars with me. Or others. Leave that juvenile crap in middle school where it belongs.

**Author's Note II:  
**This was an odd chapter for me. Very odd. Very difficult to write. This chapter took an unanticipated direction, one over which I had little control; However, this is all she wrote, your author. And I've discovered, that much like Bella, Lucius writes himself. Quite nastily, too. Except unlike Bella, I find him...utterly perverted with little redeeming quality. I found myself questioning whether to scrap this chapter and move onto the next. But I pushed through. And then once written, I debated heavily whether or not to post. But I've decided controversy and atrocity seem to reveal much about this character, and that it was rather integral for plot's sake. I think you'll find this chapter full of horrific ambiguity, written prettily. Please note that I construe this as rape. It is rape. Interpersonal ambiguity of a situation does not take away from such an ugly act. The author in no way, shape, or form condones debase actions committed by her characters. In fact, she found herself disgusted while writing this. However, it was a lovely-grotesque challenge. And so Lucius' POV I found.

* * *

Previously:

_She knew more than she let on. _

_He wondered if she knew about the mistress. The whores. He wondered if the she-demon knew._

_He hoped. Not. And he hoped. _

_The day moved._

* * *

**Location: **_The Ministry of Magic, 9th floor, Department of Magical Education, Head's office_**  
Time: **_Same day, after hours, mid-evening_**  
Event: **_Rape of a secretary_

'_Fuck yes.'_

Cock buried into hot cunt again, over and again.

_You're made of my sin  
I can't tell where cunt ends  
And where cock begins_

Lucius pleased at the novel use he'd found for his rather useless secretary. Let's call her Bint. He decided incompetence and good cunt were uncorrelated. However, it made his mark easy. And apparently, unemployment threats worked wonders on new hires. _(Her trembling lip, he had taken it for acquiescence, though her body had screamed at the initial dry invasion.)_

He didn't remember the day's date. And breakfast nuances hadn't clued reminder in.

Currently, the woman's sheer feeling wailed between the walls, sticking emotion of all directions. It was an odd decoration, as his monolith intrusion fucked the stupid bint, raw-slick from behind. (Much to her horror, much to her body's arousal.) He couldn't help amusement, as her body seemed to be enjoying him now, even amongst her mental disgust. She screamed…fighting him, fighting herself.

She bit him.

Lucius scowled. The earsplitting sound of her; it tarnished his carnal bliss. He acknowledged: the sound of feral cats in heat, out of tune, mating with hot iron brands…would have been preferable to such screech. Bint's howls cut-off in panting decrescendo – his cupping hand the rather impromptu instrument mute. Proceeding, he fucked the shut-up into her. Difficult a feat, as her moans seemed to gain lust now, albeit reluctant. A powerful hand plowed flesh for mining. Plump ass - his animal, his. Finger-digs, and bruises formed ore on female terrain. Hips quarried. And thick stalagmite, in crude excavation, pistoned pussy against the mahogany desk. A cuntcave for digging. And liquid gold poured, from hoe, coating his cock with heat and trembles. A forced orgasm. And despite herself, bodily submission fell to him, groans, hurts, and all. He had her.

_I don't love you, Binty baby  
I don't even like you  
But I'm pretty when I lie _

He couldn't care less about time on the wall. Clock ticks, and hands on (hands-on) critical was nothing. He forgot it meant the something. It all meant.

_Sounds_, no. But he enjoyed the _look_ of Bint; bruised, bent, pink and piping…spread like animal for taking. Acutely inclined, silky hair wrenched up like dirt roots. He satisfied at shining strands that detached in full, earthy strands between his fingers. Twisted, as he liked then, the whore's whimpers were turbulent, terrified; but they belied. Or so he assumed (maybe pretended) as her cuntcave pulsed around him, living. Breathing. As he bit her shoulder to beautiful blood-blooms, Bint squealed and struggled furiously. In the bowels of his back-mind, Malfoy clinically thought she sounded like a stuck pig. Fitting, it matched her bleed.

A fantasy sickened (if possible, sicker than reality) and delicious moments he had. Taut hair wrapped in his knuckles; it appeared blonder, fine as sunrays. And so from strawberries he juiced spun gold. This image, and his cock wept with destructive intent. He moved Bint unforgivingly, manhandling the hips of his masturbatory device. Up-down, up and down, on the bayoneting spindle. At this accosting brutal, his hair-handle sobbed out her insides, as he carved and stretched them to wretched. Dimmed light, and tears leaked out her eyes, shinning the desk with rape varnish.

_Fuck you  
I didn't want to fuck you baby  
I want to fuck you-up  
And you're pretty when you cry_

His mind the atrocious artist, it rendered the curving body before him. He mind-smudged it more elegant. Refined it to a different slender, well-known, but never known like this. And suddenly, Bint's neck strained back at him, eyes accusing. The twist revealed wide hating-hazels. These he shaded Cerulean. And Narcissa was born.

_I don't need oceans for permission  
I enter through her eyes_

He moaned at the idea, this simulation he had made for himself. Advancing, his rape-fucking forced further submission. He painted paining spikes into Bint-Narcissa, drove quiet whimpering in beautiful arch for him. He fucked her Malfoy. Killed her Black. Hating, hands grabbed this body-before-him in swift lift. Hips, buttocks…gripped callously. He forced Bint-Narcissa in cock-bounce from behind; the impale, his cock sword-ripping pain into her. She cried out painful gasps. But dark chuckles held position, hole rammed into pole repeatedly. The gasps were too high, too stupid to be his wife's. But it became her all the same, as sounds changed for him; he prompted them to morph. Wavelengths became warped, sweet begging torn from his Cissy's dainty throat.

'_P-please, stop. STOP! Lucius, it hurts…please please!_ _Get it ow-outttt. You're h-hurting m-me hurting h-hurting me. G-gods it HURTS! Pl-please p-please please please...'_

He wouldn't stop. He didn't stop. He didn't stop. He didn't stop. He raped.

And tear rivets studded a Black face pretty and submissive – hung like a doll. His wife. He wanted her broken and his. He hated that she could twist him into any sort of emotion. Control. He would have order. And with such a fuck in (his) mind, raping aggression ramped-up, slamming into substitute twat, brutal and hard.

_You hurt me with Black  
I hurt you back _

His current twat screamed in violent shudders, her back pressed into his chest, arm wrapped around his head. Her insides squeezing madly, milking him. Vaguely disappointed (even as he spilled into her), he noted that in Bint-reality, it had been a good scream. The stupid Bint (and smart woman) had forced her body to relax. And self-preservation had saved her from the worst of his paining attentions. He snarled. He had wanted her thorough pain. Still, reality thwarting, his perverted fantasy shattered, disapparating in shards. And he found himself different.

For now he let Narcissa go, and with it went much of the anger. The woman around him, no longer Black, now just a pretty secretary. And so he focused on _this_ pretty cunt. He allowed a touch of softness to seep through him. Still holding her up, he relieved her forced bounce. Instead, languid thrusts slid into her tight. She moaned. A real moan. The first without dueling timbres. And for a slight second he felt touches of regret sweep over, before remembering his father's mantra: _A Malfoy never apologizes, because a Malfoy is never wrong. _

Hazily, he thought the woman's head lolled back onto his shoulder. Her mouth (absent in mind, or simply mind-fucked into Stockholm) stretched for his neck. She keened against his skin, whimpering arousal in the form of a kiss.

Interesting. Perhaps they'd have a symbiotic working relationship after all.

She trembled as he managed to spin her around, prompting a frontal cock-sit. Facing him, her legs wrapped tightly about his waist, scared arms finding place under his. Their eyes met oddly with too much between them. He rather thought she abolished her anguished thoughts with his less angry cock. Her tears soaked against his chest as he let her hips roll around him, weeping, in her after rape pleasure.

'_Oh bloody fuck, this bitch…so fucking tight.'_ Was his only thought, as he buried his hands in her hair, and kissed her. _Elaine._ He vaguely noted. _Elaine._ And hesitantly she kissed him back, confused but eager for anything that resembled nice. Oddly, he indulged her. Perhaps to keep her mouth shut tomorrow. After all, she had endured his wife's rape for him.

Lucius grunted, as she fucked herself with his cock, in slow ride. He didn't notice his cane, propped up against the cracked door. Its snake eyes lit up, calling.

In fact, he didn't remember anything at all as her orgasm closed unyieldingly around him. Nothing thought, except how _good_ it felt to have a cunt fuck him _back_, with her small form clinging to him, moaning in his ear. Stumbling to the desk, he unceremoniously dumped her there, lest he should collapse. The secretary's eyes were quite unreadable as he thrust between her spread legs. But she met him there with heat.

Well, he did remember telling his pretty wife he would be working late, with a bitch at the Ministry. After all, this _was_ work. And no matter the pretty, no matter the circumstances, the secretary strewn across his desk _was_ a bitch. His bitch. And bitches were for fucking. And his wife was not a bitch. _(Logic at its best.)_

However as he spilled again, he didn't remember the bacchanalia. He only knew cunt. And despite the rape of before, he had the secretary again. And again. Screams, though pleasurable this time, were more to his liking.

_You're pretty when you're mine  
_

* * *

**Author's Note II: **R&R.

(Credit: Vast - _Pretty When You Cry_, modified by GE)


	5. Crème Brûlée

**Author's Note I:** Oh look - two updates in two days! I must be on a roll. The foreign language in this chapter is dedicated to the fantastic _imperfectionisunderrated_. A further shout out to the lovely _mrs. milfoy_, the incorrigible _Another Girl Grasping_, and the wonderful _BellasTrick_ for everlasting support in my endeavors. BT, soooo we're officially extending your B-Day gifty into a full length story. Mkay. I doubt anyone is upset about this revelation.

**Author's Note II:**  
_Guest Review Responses for Chapter 4:_

_Guest #1_ - *chuckles* Voldetrix simply has the better and more sultry ring. But of course! I answer all my reviews, usually in PM form. However, if appropriate I answer Anonymous / Guest ones ones in my subsequent chapters. You should start an account, much easier for you to review and for authors to respond : )

* * *

Previously:

_However as he spilled again, he didn't remember the bacchanalia. He only knew cunt. And despite the rape of before, he had the secretary again. And again. Screams, though pleasurable this time, were more to his liking._

_You're pretty when you're mine_

* * *

'_Idiot man with idiot timing.' _And Bellatrix slapped away the affection attempting at her bareness, fresh from a milk soak.

Annoyance steamed hearty on boudoir air. The kettle brewed Black indifference with hibiscus hints of insult. Nestled in closet regard, damp curls steeped. They didn't bother in turn around. They merely cascaded down a back strong - black swirls upon cream.

"Stupid prat, keep your hands off me…lest I chop them so. I'm not fucking you, _va te faire foutre_," she spat, culture coated her expletive.

Sharp as whistle, Bella cut into his offending appendages. Sharp nails spouted scorn, scraping red welts of rejection as scalds.

A sharp jerk of retreat. Singed, and Rodolphus pulled back his ill-directed fondness, fingers his poorly commanded troops. Once upon an early betrothal, this would have charred in the mouth, bolstered blisters. Yet, after years of marriage to this Black kettle, such swallow now only singed papillae; desensitization at its whipping peak. This Black shunning blowtorch was all his very own. Rod rather thought her sentiments tasted of burning _crème brûlée_, when sugar heated too long. Still. Despite self-depreciation, this weakness…he savored her smolders on tongue. The spurning taste of his wife in mouth; of her, it was all he had.

Closet-bound, searing nude, she stood akimbo, sorting, searching. The dark witch considered. In passing, gown suitors, corset admirers kissed her hips, wisped over _grand tetons_.

Idiotically, he felt jealous of inanimate textiles. The wild desert of her musculature might have well been mirage. Many a thick man longed to purloin sips, and many a hopeful dick expired, poisoned. Bellatrix was tempting, sorely so. Men coveted,women lost. And as husband, Rodolphus was not exempt; undeviatingly, her dangling drinkdraw beaded his lips, parching. One might think as spouse, he'd gain some reprieve, some allowance. Maybe the unscathing word. A blowjob. The foolish boy who'd subscribed to such thought? Such imbecile, such the odium dream. Even as Lestrange, Bella was forever elusive to him. Dick-deep in her hot waters, onyx would darken, elsewhere in mind. Or cruel eyes would train upon him, in vilified ride, belittling in amusement. Her mouth screamed other names, even as her body arched for him. In throes, she'd insult him. Words mocked, even in her glorious orgasms. And still, to him: the most fuckable woman in his fucked world. His unfaithful wife, the Bella-_bruja_.

Reprieve. Laughable. As husband, the Belladonna dose was doubled. It so amused the Dark Lord. The marriage, once suggested to Cygnus by their lord, was a sardonic show. Was simply the Dark Lord's favorite derisive comedy; his cup of entertainment on command. Bella, his favored blackened actor, creaming others to his lethal content.

Still. _Crème brûlée_. Even knowing the taste, one couldn't help but wield spoons, savor the found saccharine, the bitters laces of acidity. Granted, this particular flavor was contingent, the permanent burnt adornment for Rodolphus. Even in her hatred, Severus was offered more respect. Husband was merely an indifferent prop. Flaccid in being, in use. Lame duck, never _Duck a l'Orange_.

Rodolphus signed.

Undeterred, she continued to rifle through the generous wardrobe, outfit cruising. Her thoughts traveled amongst fabrics. A flash of odd hue chuckled pause. And sheer in amusement, Bellatrix's eyebrow found dramatic rise. The saffron gown, yielded weird, a strange juxtaposition with her happily bruised wardrobe. Naked, the woman snarled at its cheeky cheer, at silks that were far too smiling for the likes of the _brûlée_ Blackened.

Wand.

And incineration, seemed to raise her spirits. That, and then the room truly smelt burnt, smoky as apparition.

Rod thought he heard her mutter a strange fondness, sweet _cremada_ coating her throaty lows,

"_Juane_? Cissy-girl, yellow? Oh _ma chérie_, _tu es_ bat-shit crazy," French kissed the air.

Frustrated, he poked at cinders, sticking out the pointed toe in conversation.

"Belle. _La soirée n'est pas encore une heure..._" He all but winced at the petulance jacketing his voice, smoking his airways.

Pale hands caressed red chiffon, her current deliberation. The lilt returned casually, distracted, mocking him.

"_Oui_, and you surely can wait until after the party, for your monthly pity fuck. Now get the fuck dressed," she cremated.

A set of robes Accio-smacked him, in the face.

Bellatrix didn't bother to look at him, merely shifted magically through another rack of frocks. Amethyst caught her touch; its velvet became twitch, the faint smile. Rippled over skin, and it was cream to rich coffee, color theory painting allusion there. She let the past fall through her fingers. Moved on, holding memory in mind.

Rod only caught the corner of her mouth in eye, but he thought her expression looked like adolescent remembrance. He scowled, knowing it wasn't his face at which she softened. His arm stung. _Brûlée_. Burns were burns. No matter the milk in her bath, of her skin.

To another stretch of gowns the witch turned.

Breasts came into frame (dark-tipped nipples shouting chill), and his pants tightened in mangled tent. Rodolphus gazed at her - the witch diabolically skyclad, indifferent to him in her superiority. He abhorred this scalding weakness. This detestation. This knowledge. Her gown, teasing corsets, adorning earrings. Never chosen for him. Never sweet on him. Never sweet to him. Rod sulked, and ruled the kingdom of envy (his name as scepter). She proceeded into delicious jade, then bodice, hooking the corset as second skin.

No words passed. He did not tell her she looked queenly. Not even as curling mane rose, baring her neck in style. He knew she cared nothing, as he donned sere robes, handsomely trimmed with sable. Rodolphus took a sip of air, and choked on curdled ashes, finding it spoiled. His master was lucky to always have sugar bowls.

In the end, Bella had chosen green silks. He watched her at the vanity, hematite earrings studding her regal (not that she needed the small spiders as compliments). The bedroom was quiet, save for his loud stare, obnoxious in whine.

'_Pathetic.'_

Cruelly amused, she didn't bother to correct her idiot husband's thoughts, as to why her skin clothed green.

The Dark Lord knew all, and Bella didn't hide.

* * *

**Author's Note II: **And so enters our femme fatale. R & R. Forgive me is my French is a bit off, as alas, I'm no Fleur. An FYI: the next chapter in the works is chapter 8 of MWR. So for those who've been patiently waiting, yes, that is next on my task list. For those invested in this...why my dearies, not to worry. This is still going strong.

**Translations - French, unless otherwise indicated:  
**_~ Brûlée_ = burnt

_~ Bruja _(Spanish)= witch

_~ Crème brûlée_ = burnt cream

~ _Cremada_ (Spanish) = burnt

~ _Duck a l'Orange__ = Orange Duck_

_~ Grand tetons = _large breast / teat

_~ Juane _= yellow

_~ La soirée n'est pas encore une heure_ = The party is not for another hour

_~ Ma chérie_, _tu es_ = my darling, you are

~ _Oui _= yes

_~ Va te faire foutre_ = go fuck yourself


	6. Pay the Piper

**Author's Note I:** A short update for you.

* * *

Previously:

_In the end, Bella had chosen green silks. He watched her at the vanity, hematite earrings studding her regal (not that she needed the small spiders as compliments). The bedroom was quiet, save for his loud stare, obnoxious in whine._

_'Pathetic.'_

_Cruelly amused, she didn't bother to correct her idiot husband's thoughts, as to why her skin clothed green._

_The Dark Lord knew all, and Bella didn't hide._

* * *

Acoustics of the hallway lended dramatics, and apparition sounded off gunshots in foyer. Whipping robes, and blonde streaked back into materialism. Impeccable the appearance, but not the countenance. The expression upon youthful face was both flabbergasted and squicky. (Though, hints of familial amusement twinged his mouth morbid.) Draco fervently wished for oblivation, or the extremities of eye gorging.

He could have gone his whole life without seeing his father fuck anyone in the ass. But as evidenced by untimely horrors, Draco only made it to age seventeen. Pity, such un-happenings would have been nice. The only firefly of light: Lucius remained unaware of his son's split-second intrusion. Granted, Draco thought this speck of sunlight was swallowed to swamp, by the screams he'd heard wrench out that woman's mouth.

The foyer filled. Lady Malfoy in the house. As the Madame waltzed before him, Draco hadn't time to mask his expression or annihilate the sounds of his father's grunt-throes. Her eyes danced cool in expectance, mum lurking, but the _Madame_ was in.

"Well…?" Narcissa's eyebrow raised, curiosity picking at her son's odd expression, nausea trimmed.

_(Door cracked, spilling liquid howls against a desk. Blonde hair meshed together with dominant sweat. Cane nestled by doorjamb, conducting the smell of rape, scents of manipulation on air.)_

Cissy eyed her son, patient in wisps of concern, as he seemed to stomach a cockroach meal. She rather thought he attempted to chew and swallow some mental Blattodea, letting it squirm down esophagus. This, rather then spitting out masticated macabre. Narcissa assumed it inexperience, as apparition is an acquired lover.

They walked. Perhaps toward the sitting room. Perhaps toward dysfunction.

Until now, the young wizard hadn't reason to understand the concept of _avada-the-messenger_. Acutely, he was aware of such now. As was he aware of his mother's wand, masquerading as innocence sheathed in holster. She graced sky robes, empire waist their feminine marker. Gold threads her magic, she embroidered delicate allure. In her soiree finery, the wand holster reminded world of her individual prowess. Her sleeping Black. Perhaps not as explosive as her wild sibling, but Cissa was a force, powerful in wielding others' underestimation. She'd done up her tresses; soft, tendrils escaping confines. The perfect picture of purity. Pristine. Pureblood. Propriety.

And Draco was not surprised when dulcet tones insulted welcome to him.

"As clearly, fetching your own father is outside répertoire, do enlighten me. The excuse for his absence? Surely the Dark Lord wouldn't send him on mission…not this night."

He ignored the undertones (that seduced with Bellatrix-influence), as Black liberally coated blonde words. In home welcome, a kiss pressed to Draco's cheek, thanks for his Hermes task, despite lack of return. In slight mothering across his shoulders, Narcissa's arm grasped affection around him. Draco was Slytherin antics, casual, against their proximity.

"Father's in the middle of a…project…" Project, that was one _way_ to put it. (Euphemism in a best practice.)

Their steps moved still, but stony orbs were perpendicular to his partner's clicking steps. Calculatingly, frothing waves eyed him curiously as Draco's voice plucked odd notes. He swallowed, his mother's gaze too knowing in its cuts. He tried at half-truths and spoke Slytherin. For once, it tasted of sand. Dried beaches choked in throat.

"The project…" shell pieces were lesions in the mouth, "…doubtful he'll be in time to make entrance with you. Expect him late."

Hitch in walking rhythm, and the interested look swept darkness across Narcissa's face. Understanding, her sudden companion.

_'Well fuck.'_

Draco knew that look. Nothing ever good came of that look.

She eyed him purposely for long moments, before a thin smile allowed son into her world as man. He entered, and instantly missed childhood. Draco audibly clogged on nothing, and stared incredulously. Her quiet spoke too much. He had fallen prey too easily, to the façade of his mother's naivety. The answer to his morning tea question: yes, she _knew_.

"Blonde, brunette or redhead?" Narcissa's voice lilted glass, clear in usual craft.

Face tabula rasa, the elegant witch could have asked him to pass teapot with such tone. She _had_, in fact, this morning.

This conversation wasn't happening, he decided. It just wasn't.

But it was.

"Blonde." The accidental sugar cube popped out his mouth, traces of arsenic palatable.

_'Oh yes mother, let me pass you the cream too.'_ Draco's mind sipped sardonicism, as he matched her tone, serene in disguise. But anger welled on her behalf, and he shredded mask. Draco made to voice outrage, palliation. But her eyes pooled, and a hand pushed back air, anticipating his sentiments. It pleaded him speechless, ending reality in their conversation. Apparently he was permitted privy, but not voice. His hands had grown into man, Draco noticed, as he grasped the delicate petite of hers. This tacit, the only way she'd allow support from him. He knew it was minute comfort.

Still. Draco saw her placid eyes disrobe, and watched his mother unearth emotion. The slightest lip quake, blues trading for indigo dye. For pithy moments he found _Cissy_ (or was it _Cissa_) eyes watering hurt upon cheeks. But then _Madame Malfoy_ conquered, and beat down the human. Brushed away silvered culprits. Gently, without chastisement, Madame removed his hand. The small pat to remind him of their roles cast in a tragedy scene.

Draco hated showbusiness. And Malfoy was a moneymaking show.

Without notice, away Narcissa strode off, leaving him. She ascended the grand staircase, fingertip tension on banister. But her gait expanded confidence, as if she were suddenly herself. The silently spelled, and blonde hair unbound.

On the marble floor below, he marveled. His mother's hair was always bound, never free. Draco tried hard to discount such metaphor. But locks unfurled, to shining waves. They crashed curlier, frizzier than a Malfoy would allow. Wilder in freeform than he suspected. The staircase swirl, and he saw his mother clearly for the first time.

Cissa Black in sneering glory.

And suddenly the jawline was less soft; it angled a familiarity Draco had only seen in one other. It was Bellatrix caressing from the shadows, in her hair. Her eyes. And oddly, Cissa must have felt it too. For hand clasped about her necklace with great fondness; the spider she was never without (even on soiree sites).

Draco knew she had an entrance to make. If arriving solo, she'd need a different fashion statement then the docile blues of her soft gown. The show would go on. And it appeared Narcissa accepted her solo role in Malfoy marriage. If Lucius couldn't perform adequately, she'd let her Black shine under spotlight. It could only improve their ratings.

Halfway up the stairs, he couldn't help but call out to her,

"And if I had said redhead? Brunette?"

She abruptly turned, laying a trophy-wife life at his feet. Letting him see the slaughter, the shinning of tears.

"Then life would be normal, and I'd be paying the mistresses over tea pipers, the monthly usual." The speech was resigned in routine design.

_[Societally condoned in pureblood culture, a formal mistress escaped adultery definitions (if not despicable morals.) However, Draco wryly assumed that clandestine secretary-raping did not fall under this legal umbrella.] _

But Draco heard revenge plotting eventuals there, decades' of accruement in worth. He heard the defection, a long-time coming. And the boy wondered how this act would play.

Lost in thoughts, Draco returned. Only to find empty staircase. _Cissa _was rearing her head. And he knew without doubt, she'd gone to change. That sanguine gift of Bella's would out tonight.

Black or not, still, she was just as Malfoy as he was. And Draco couldn't decide quite what the dress was prompted by. _Cissy's_ pain at marital betrayal, or _Madame Malfoy's_ ire at the under utilization of services already paid?

Both were plausible.

He made toward the study. Blaise would be flooing in momentarily. As he turned about the corner, the clear crack of apparition met his ears from upstairs

And Draco had the nasty feeling, that whoever his mother was. All forms of her were done following pied piper. The element of _Cissa_ was rogue in red robes; her roulette wheels didn't matter anymore.

* * *

**Author's Note II:** R&R my lovelies. After this chapter...our real action begins.


End file.
